notebook paper love letters

is it as strange as it sometimes feels for me to want to lament the loss of “my boys” like wendy darling being old and grownup living a different life leaving behind never never land?

i find tucked away in random notebooks and binders drawings that were scribbled by a collection of children whose stories seared themselves into my soul over the course of the time it would take for a baby to grow and be born just a bit prematurely — and then be taken away directly from mom when she wasn’t ready to let go of what was so close.

my capacity for deep connections is a blessing that disguises itself in white-knuckled form, after fighting incessantly for so long to understand how on earth something so continuously shattering can be a mechanism of not only growth and blessing, but even healing. God is breaking pieces of me to reset them so that they’ll heal correctly. he says i need to feel the broken pieces so that i know what is being healed. sometimes i wonder if i can hear what i am being taught, or if i just hear myself rustling around in my sweat and tear-soaked dreams, aching to be let go of.